


Wait for Me to Come Home (or don't, y'fuckin' punk)

by emrys (livingshitpost)



Series: soft wwii boyfriends [15]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Bucky Barnes Feels, Bucky Barnes Has Issues, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Bucky Barnes Recovering, Bucky Barnes Returns, Bucky Barnes is Not the Winter Soldier, Bucky Barnes-centric, Canon Divergence - Captain America: The First Avenger, Canon Divergence - Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Fix-It, Fix-It of Sorts, Hugs, Hurt Bucky Barnes, Inspired By Tumblr, M/M, Not Beta Read, Not Canon Compliant, Not Captain America: The Winter Soldier Compliant, Not Really Character Death, Post-Avengers (2012), Post-Captain America: The First Avenger, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-24
Updated: 2018-10-24
Packaged: 2019-08-07 04:43:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,613
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16401527
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/livingshitpost/pseuds/emrys
Summary: "imagine: bucky still falls off the train, and steve into the arctic, but instead of bucky being found by the russians he had fallen into the river and went under, the same way cap did. so, when 2012 rolls around and cap's been found, some guy with too much money and sentimentality goes 'wait, whaT IF-' and starts a search for bucky's body. because if the captain was found, what about his ol' pal bucky?"As different as things looked and sounded, the smell of Brooklyn was always the same, and it reminded him that no, he wasn't dead. This wasn't a dream. He was home.





	Wait for Me to Come Home (or don't, y'fuckin' punk)

_"BUCKY!"_

Even as his voice grew quieter, drowned out by the distance and the whipping wind, Steve's final, desperate cry reverberated in his skull like a church bell. He simply stared, eyes wide, trying to make his last moments something he could almost enjoy. He'd seen Steve every day since they'd met. He'd memorized what he looked like. He could craft a perfect image in his mind, but he wanted to hold on to this one for as long as he had left.

Branches jutting out of the cliffside tore at his clothes, but he barely registered them. The air already felt like a solid mass beneath him. Part of him wondered if it would hurt. If he would see his father after he died. Or his mother. Or Sarah Rogers. Maybe even one of his younger siblings, though he hoped that wouldn't be the case. Or maybe he wouldn't see anyone. Maybe he would wake up in another place, at another time, in another life.

Or maybe it would all just end.

* * *

Everything was fuzzy. It felt almost like a dream. He could barely open his eyes. He wasn't sure if he wanted to just yet, but his curiosity got the better of him with time.

The room was sparse. White walls, wooden floor, simple white linen sheets, and a single window overlooking- well, nothing. He was staring at the brick exterior of the building next door.

The door started to open, and he tensed, sitting up too quickly and blurring his vision for a few seconds. He held his head in his hands.

Hand.

Wait,  _hand?_

As his sight returned, he looked down at himself. His right hand was exactly as he expected; intact, but calloused, with small scars all over, but his left was completely gone. Most of his left arm was gone, in fact, from just below the deltoid.

"What the hell . . ." He coughed. His throat was dry and hurt like a bitch. He kept coughing as a young woman with a tray of medicine entered the room.

"Oh, you're awake," she said. She had a slight accent that he couldn't quite place. English? Irish, maybe? His head was spinning. "How are you doing, Sargent Barnes?"

"What-" he choked amidst the coughing fit, "what happened?"

"You had frostbite," she explained. "Your arm was dying, and it was killing you with it. We had to amputate." She paused, licking her lips. "I'm sorry." She offered him a glass of water. "I'm sure it's a bit of a shock, but plenty of soldiers have led long and fulfilling lives with one arm. I'm sure you'll be among them."

He did his best to curb the coughing on his own, taking the glass with an appreciative nod and downing it so quickly that water dribbled from the corners of his mouth. He handed it back and muttered his thanks. "Where am I?" His voice was still hoarse.

"You're in a treatment facility in Switzerland," she told him. She poured another glass of water from the pitcher on the tray. "We wanted to make sure you were stable before attempting to transport you any further, but once your condition is deemed to be stable, you'll be sent back to America."

He nodded slowly. "Right. Can't very well fight with one arm, huh?" He chuckled a bit.

The woman laughed along with him. "I don't think there'll be any need for you to fight, Sargent Barnes. The war is over."

"Seriously?"

She nodded with a smile. "Congratulations to the Allied Powers; we won."

"When?"

"About a year after your last mission."

"A year?!"

"You've been asleep for a long time, and it might be difficult adjusting to how much things have changed."

"What year _is_ it?"

She drew her mouth into a thin line.

"Hey, what year is it?"

"I'm not supposed to tell you yet, we want to make sure you're in a sound state of mind."

"Who the hell is we?"

"Shield. It's the Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement and Logistics Division, founded by Margaret Carter, Howard Stark, and Chester Phillips. I suppose you know who they are."

He nodded slowly. "Yeah. Yeah, I-I know those three."

"Then do you trust me?"

"Will you answer my questions?"

"Eventually, yes. Before you get back stateside."

"And I'll be allowed to leave?"

"We'll want to keep an eye on how your health progresses, but yes."

"And when you answer my questions, they'll be truthful answers?"

"Trick question; if I say yes, I could be lying. If I say no, you know I'm lying, but not when. So, unfortunately, I'll have to decline to answer."

"I like you," he smiled, laughing. He moved to clap, but his right hand simply swatted the air. He laughed at that, too, and slapped his leg, which, thankfully, he still had two of. She laughed along with him.

* * *

Sixty-seven years. He'd been out of commission for sixty-seven years. He was turning ninety-five this March, but he still looked (and more importantly  _felt_ ) like he was only twenty-seven.

He bounced his leg anxiously.

The plane was still a bit overwhelming; there were portable, intelligent machines right on board with him that he could use to seek any information he wanted. It practically flew itself.

Howard would have shit himself if he'd seen this, he thought with a smile.

He stood, stretching his ~~arms~~ _arm_ (he was still getting used to that) above his head and rolling his shoulders. Considering that his only meals for a little over a year consisted of bland and, frankly, shitty rations, the food provided on the flight back to America was incredible. He'd already eaten six apples. Not just dried pieces, either; they were fresh. The bread was warm and moist and actually tasted like _bread_. Hell, there was even a platter of assorted meats and cheeses and crackers, served with round, juicy grapes. Part of him thought that maybe he  _had_ died, and that this was the blissful afterlife he'd been promised.

But that would mean Steve was dead, he realized, and as much as he wanted to see him again, he knew that the world needed Captain America, maybe even more than he needed Steve Rogers.

* * *

As different as things looked and sounded, the smell of Brooklyn was always the same, and it reminded him that no, he wasn't dead. This wasn't a dream. He was home. It was a different time than the one he knew, and his apartment had no doubt been knocked down, or at least renovated beyond recognition, with someone else living inside, but he was _home_. And he was on his way to see Steve. Steve, who, logically, Bucky knew that he had seen only days ago. But he felt the crushing reality of not seeing him for sixty-seven long, lonely years, despite sleeping through it all. His heart was light for a moment, but there was a knot in the pit of his stomach, his fingers twitching with anticipation as he walked down the boardwalk, looking for that telltale wall of muscle and that head of gold that matched his heart-

"I just don't get why they pulled me away from a mission for a stroll down memory lane, y'know?" 

He knew that voice. 

"Steve?"

Three guys looked his way, two of whom continued walking, glaring bitterly. But he wasn't paying any attention to them. He only cared about those bright blue eyes, squinting in his direction, and then-

" . . . Bucky?"

"Yeah, it's me." He stepped forward, hand in his hoodie pocket, leaning on the railing of the boardwalk. "Miss me? 'Cause, fuck, Steve, I cannot leave you alone for a  _second_ without you getting into some kinda bullshit."

"Buck, what-"

"I mean, come on, I was dead for two years,  _two years_ , and you take a nose dive into the goddamn Arctic Ocean?"

"Bucky-"

"What the  _fuck_ were you thinking? 'Oh, my impulse control fell right off the train with Bucky! I guess my best option is to crash a plane without giving my coordinates!' You fuckin' idiot!" His breaths were laboured. "You stupid little punk. I wish I could say I can't believe you did that, but I _can't_ , because it's exactly the kinda thing you would do, and you _did it_. I thought that time in Brussels was bad, but this? Oh, you've really outdone yourself this time." He furiously wiped his eyes. "Oh, and of course we can't forget about the  _aliens_. Ten days outta the ice, and do you take a vacation?" He jabbed his finger into Steve's chest, almost knocking the wind out of him. "Do you take some time to yourself to get caught up on the world?" He started to practically beat Steve's chest with the side of his fist now. "Of  _course_ not! Let's go fight some aliens, because that's CLEARLY the best course of action! You didn't die, so obviously you should go do something stupid that could get you killed  _YET AGAIN_ -" he shouted, shoving Steve into the railing, "-because Captain America is _always_ looking for a chance to risk his entire ass to save anyone!"

Steve stood there for a moment, tears welling in his eyes. "Buck," he breathed, "you're  _alive_ ," and he wrapped him up in a bone-crushingly protective hug.

"Yeah, I know." He looped his arm around Steve, gripping his shoulder, and squeezed as tightly as he could. "And you're a dumbass."

"Your arm-"

"Really? That's what you're worried about?" He laughed. "Hey, it's no big deal, Stevie." He sniffled a little bit. "Captain America helps people, right? What  _can't_ I do if you're there with me, huh?"

Steve buried his face in Bucky's neck. 


End file.
